


The Avengers Family Christmas

by cablesscutie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Christmas Present for Rocket, Domestic Avengers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-26
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-03 15:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2855459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cablesscutie/pseuds/cablesscutie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint has never really had a proper family holiday celebration.  Phil makes some calls and attempts to fix that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skinandearth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinandearth/gifts).



Clint Barton isn’t a festive guy. He feels no need to deck his halls, he could take or leave the snow, and eggnog just makes him want to gag. However, this year feels different. It’s the first year he can remember that he isn’t spending Christmas by himself (Well, aside from the time he and Natasha crossed paths in Budapest, but they don’t really like to talk about that one). Phil is coming out from New York, and Phil loves Christmas even more than he loves Captain America, and Clint loves Phil, so he’s making an effort.

He’s put up a tree and hung it with colorful, if somewhat impersonal globes and garlands. There are two big stockings hanging over the fireplace, and he’s picked up a box of gingerbread cookies from the bakery in town and some hot chocolate mix. There’s a wreath on the front door, and Phil’s present (a new shield for his Captain America cosplay) is packed in a deceptively-sized box and wrapped up under the tree. It’s all shaping up to be a holly jolly Christmas until Clint goes and opens his big dumb mouth, reminding himself for the millionth time that there’s a reason his specialty is assassination rather than infiltration. Namely, bad things happen to him when he talks.

Like, say, having his boyfriend invite a whole horde of superfreaks to crash their quiet holiday together because “What do you mean you’ve never had a big family Christmas celebration?”

“You’ve read my file, you know why?”

“...Well you’re having one this year.”

“ Wait, what?”

“I have to make some calls. Love you, bye!” Phil had hung up before Clint could demand that he explain himself, but he’d figured it out soon enough when Nat texted him to say _I’m bringing the Gallete, Steve wants to know what he can make._ He rubs his temples in a futile attempt to ward off a headache and tells her 

**doesn’t matter**

She replies a few minutes later that _Steve is making his Ma’s cherry pie and Bucky calls dibs on snickerdoodles._

Clint actually has to lie down on the couch for awhile when he reads that. “Un-frickin-believable,” he mutters to himself, tossing an arm over his eyes. “The Winter fuckin’ Soldier is bringing me snickerdoodles.” He lets himself drift off to sleep right there, wondering how it came to pass that his life got weirder when he went on leave.

He’s rudely awoken by Tony Stark’s voice yelling on his answering machine. There’s a roaring in the background that suggests that Tony is flying in the suit as he shouts,

“Barton! Hey, so I’ve got some lights still kicking around from decorating the tower; how’re you set for decorations? I could run ‘em by if you want, maybe sync them up with some ACDC?” There’s a pause and then, “Pepper’s calling in, gotta go. Lemme know on the Christmas lights!” Clint breathes a sigh of relief as the answering machine beeps to let him know that the call’s ended. He calls back and leaves a voicemail:

“You are not turning my house into one of your gaudy monstrosities. I swear to God, if I see you one minute before the twenty-fifth, I’ll shoot you out of the sky and roast you like a goddamn Christmas goose.” He figures there’s about a 50% chance that Stark will actually listen to him and a 50% chance he’ll show up just to piss him off.

Clint gets up to make another pot of coffee and leans against the counter, starting at the clock on the stove. He’s got about six hours left until he has to leave to pick up Phil from the airport and there’s nothing left to prepare. He tries to climb into bed and rest for a few hours, but his eyes won’t stay closed. He tosses and turns and shifts, but nothing is exactly comfortable, so he pulls out a novel that Bruce had recommended to him and tries to amuse himself with that as best he can.

It’s actually an incredible story and he’s two hundred pages in by the time the alarm on his phone goes off. Clint lives in the middle of fucking nowhere, so it’s an hour and a half to the tiny local airport - a fact which he’s usually grateful for since it means Phil and Nat are the only ones who ever bother to visit, but it also means a fairly long evening for him by the time they’re at the house.

He finds the gate easily (there’s only four of them after all) and a few minutes later, Phil is strolling over with a backpack slung over his shoulder. Clint sort of wants to be upset that when Phil kisses him, it’s brief and absent minded, but at the same time, he’s a bit giddy that this is routine for them now. He’s also sympathetic to the low slope of his boyfriend’s shoulders and the glassy eyes trying to brighten themselves up. It’s the look of an agent just coming off a long mission. Clint wonders when Phil last caught a full night’s sleep.

The concern must show in his face, because Phil holds up a placating hand and assures him “I’m fine, really. It’s just been a long one.”

“What happened?” Clint reaches past Phil to grab the duffle bag still bearing the SHIELD emblem off of the conveyor belt.

“I’ll give you the details in the car, but long story short: I’m no longer surprised that Captain Rogers was a scrapper back in the day.” Clint nods in understanding. He’s seen Cap jump out of so many windows, it’s a wonder Phil’s hairline hasn’t receded further since he was placed as Steve’s assignment coordinator.

“So,” Phil sighs, dropping into the passenger seat. “There was HYDRA activity.” Clint’s stomach twists. The terrorist group had been silent for months now, and they’d naively thought that it had been wiped out. After all, it had been the sole focus of seventy years’ worth of Steve’s grief and vengeful rage ever since the re-surfacing of Bucky Barnes as the Winter Soldier. It seemed impossible that anything could survive that.

“No higher-ups, Phil assures him. “Really nothing more than some idiot sympathizers sitting in a warehouse. The mission was to go in and capture the agents, but…”

“Steve decided to kick ass first, ask questions later?”

“He had to be dragged out of there - by Barnes no less.”

“Geez…” Clint hates to think how out of control Cap would’ve had to be for Bucky to think he was being too harsh on them.

“Barnes knew we needed them for questioning, and...well, if Steve kept at it, they wouldn’t exactly be in a position to cooperate.”

“Bet that made your job fun.” Phil shoots him a tired smirk.

“Well, you know how I love a good incident report.”

When they get to the house, Phil smiles softly at the decorations. Not quite the level of enthusiasm Clint had been going for, but having to deal with Cap’s mess all day could put a damper on anyone’s holiday spirit. Clint had figured that they’d sit around and talk for a while, and maybe he’d get around to lecturing Phil for inviting his freakish co workers to spend the holidays with them, but Phil barely slows down as he maneuvers his way through the house to the master bedroom. He sets his bags down and immediately starts rummaging around for pajamas and his toothbrush and toothpaste. When the bathroom door shuts behind him, Clint figures he had better follow suit.

Phil emerges looking no less tired but undoubtedly more relaxed, and Clint steps past him to the sink. He sees Phil come up behind him and arms wrap around his waist.

“Hey,” he mutters around a mouthful of toothpaste.

“Hey,” Phil presses his face into the back of Clint’s neck. “Sorry I’m not exactly in the spirit of things today.”

“Let go.”

“What?”

“I gotta spit, let go,” Clint tells him.

“Oh!” Phil releases him and when Clint finishes rinsing and turns to face him, the agent’s cheeks have gone a bit red. “Sorry. For everything,” he adds.

“Don’t be,” Clint assures him. “This is going to be a good year, even if I have to put up with those freaks trashing my house.”

“They’re not going to trash it.”

“Write down the date and time you said that.”

Phil is asleep only a moment after his head hits the pillow, rolling onto his side to face away from the brightness of Clint’s booklight. Clint sneaks a few glances over at him and sees that he looks tired even when he’s snoring softly in bed. It’s nights like this that remind Clint that his job may be more dangerous, but Phil’s is much more draining. He reads a couple more chapters before his eyes start to close of their own accord and he settles in beside his boyfriend. 

Christmas Eve dawns cold with a flurry of snow swirling on the wind and a message from Steve that he and Bucky should be landing at four. He frowns a bit at that. No doubt the others will be there first, and whatever crazy things they do in the field, when it comes to stuff like Christmas parties, Steve and Bucky are pretty normal. As for the other Avengers...well, he’s not sure any of them know more about family holidays than he does.

He shows the phone screen to Phil, who understands his point immediately. “We’re going to lose our minds,” he says, pressing his hand to his temple already. 

“At least we still have the morning to ourselves though.” Clint passes a mug of coffee across the breakfast nook, taking a sip of his own.

“Yeah. We’ll just have to enjoy the peace while we’ve got it.”

They go about the morning lazily. They drink their coffee slowly and take long hot showers and watch the morning newscast all the way through. Phil makes waffles while Clint fries up some bacon and the cinnamon rolls bake in the oven. They eat and talk about nothing: some of the new agents’ hijinks, eccentric small-town citizens, and the year that Phil was cast as Mary in his school Christmas pageant because it was all boys’ and he wasn’t fast enough to call not-it. Clint turns the TV to White Christmas and stretches out on the couch with his head in Phil’s lap and hums along with Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney, surprisingly on-key. Phil takes one of Clint’s hands to lace their fingers together.

They’re broken out of the quiet by the crunch of tires on frozen ground and the muffled wail of ACDC blasting out of a car stereo. Phil turns to lock eyes with Clint. “Well, sounds like the kids are here.”


	2. Bucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky sorta wishes he had Steve to himself this Christmas.

The day before Christmas, Bucky is rudely awoken at six a.m. by the shrill beeping of the alarm clock. Resisting the start of the day, he presses his face into his pillow and reaches out for Steve, only to find the other side of the bed empty and cold. That’s not okay. It’s the holidays and they’re both on leave - that means sleeping late and exchanging lazy morning kisses and maybe not bothering to get up at all, but Steve doesn’t know how to say no, and now they’re going to Clint’s farm out in the middle of nowhere and they might as well be going to Jersey because it’s going to suck that much. He tried to tell Steve as much when he’d gotten off the phone with Agent Coulson, but to no avail. Supposedly the whole gang was going too, and it would be rude to say no when they didn’t actually have plans anyway.

“That’s the whole point though!” Bucky had told him. “Christmas is a family holiday, and _you’re_ my family. I barely even know Clint, unless you count that time I tried to kill him, which coincidentally, I _don’t_. And I don’t think he would either.”

“Well then maybe you should get to know him as Bucky,” Steve had suggested. “I think you’ll have a much better outcome this time. Who knows, you might even like each other.”

“I can count the people I like on one hand.”

“He’s friends with Natasha too, you guys probably have something in common.” He’d caved shortly thereafter and the big smile that Steve had given him had almost made up for the chaos he’d just signed himself up for.

From the kitchen, he can hear the sounds of someone bustling around, opening cabinets and stirring something on the stovetop. With a sigh so heavy and put-out that it moves his whole body, Bucky resigns himself to getting out of bed. He grabs some pajama pants and a sweatshirt that upon further observation is probably Steve’s, and shuffles down the hall, following the smell of stewing cherries. 

“Good morning,” Steve greets him, turning away from the pot he’s stirring to smile at him warmly.

“Mornin’” he mutters, leaning into kiss Steve before pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“How’d you sleep?”

“I was actually having a decent night’s sleep for once, till _someone’s_ alarm woke me up.”

“Sorry about that.” Bucky quirks an eyebrow.

“That all you’re sorry about?” Steve’s eyes drop to the floor, and his shoulders shrink in on themselves, making him look the smallest he has since 1942. 

“No, I mean- I- Well, no. Yesterday I...I got out of control. I’m so sorry, Bucky.”

“Not like I don’t get it.”

“That’s why though. If anyone had the right to freak out yesterday, it was you.” Bucky shrugs one shoulder and lets the faintest hint of a smile pull at his lips.

“You always were the scrappy one. Guess things are going back to normal.” Steve lets out a breath and reaches out with the hand not stirring the cherry mixture to pull Bucky closer to him. Bucky wraps his arms around Steve’s waist, trying to let him know that it’s okay - _he’s_ okay, finally. It had actually felt sort of good not to be the one losing it for once, getting to step back into his old role of keeping Steve’s righteous anger in check. “So,” he mumbles into his boyfriend’s neck after a moment. “Star-Spangled Man with a plan, what’re we doing today?” He can _feel_ Steve roll his eyes, but he gives in anyway and tells Bucky,

“You finished the cookies last night, and we’re all packed, so I just have to finish Ma’s cherry pie, and then we’ve gotta head out to the airstrip by ten.”

“Ten? But Stevie, that’s so _early_. Can’t we just enjoy the morning? We’re not gonna get a moment’s peace for the rest of the holiday.”

“We need to leave on time. It’s Christmas Eve, traffic will be nuts, and I’m not confident that Stark will hold the plane if we’re late.”

“It doesn’t leave until noon, we’re fine.”

“We need to get there early.”

“What for?”

“To help Pepper with Tony, who will no doubt be nearly impossible to reason with.”

“Ugh.”

“I know,” Steve sympathizes. He nods at Bucky’s left arm, the light from overhead glinting off the polished metal as he sips at his coffee. “But it’s not exactly like we can get you through security on a commercial flight.” Steve shuts off the stove and carries the pot over to the table to pour the filling into the pie crust waiting there. He lays the lattice top over it and puts the pie in the oven to bake, and Bucky closes his eyes, breathing in the smell and being brought back to the Brooklyn of his childhood - to Christmas mornings where he’d race off to the Rogers’ apartment the second his sister finished opening her gift, and he and Steve would have warm cherry pie for breakfast.

“What’re you thinking about?” Steve asks.

“Pie.” Bucky opens his eyes and sees that Steve is looking at him in a way that implies he knows exactly what had been on Bucky’s mind, but he doesn’t push. Instead, he asks,

“Did you double-check your suitcase?” and starts running water for the dishes.

The rest of the morning is without incident. The pie looks perfect and the snickerdoodles Bucky baked yesterday are packed carefully with the presents, and they’ve joined the others at Tony’s airstrip outside Manhattan. Stark, in his usual eccentric manner, decides to race the jet in his suit, sparing them a four hour stint in a pressurized tube with him, and everyone is in good spirits for the holiday.

That is of course until they’re buckling their seatbelts and Bucky suddenly remembers:

“Steve?” Steve turns to face him, brow furrowed in concern.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“I just remembered something.” He sees Steve’s jaw clench as he braces himself for what Bucky has to say next. It’s been nearly four years since D.C., and they’re pretty sure Bucky’s gotten back as much as he’s going to, which is very nearly everything from Brooklyn. The missing spots...well, they aren’t likely to hold anything good.

“What’d you remember?” Steve asks, voice soft and eyes making a poor attempt at hiding worry. Bucky grips the armrests and shuts his eyes tight as the plane pulls into takeoff and he’s pressed against the back of his seat.

“The last time I boarded a flight voluntarily was D-Day,” he bites out. “It’s not a fond memory, I don’t think I liked it.” Steve’s expression calms and rests a hand over Bucky’s, brushing his thumb over white knuckles until they unclench enough that he can take hold of Bucky’s hand. 

“Don’t worry,” Steve assures him. “Air travel is way better now. Plus you’re in Stark’s private jet, not a bomber being shot at by Nazis. Should be a nice smooth ride.”

“Well,” Bruce pipes up from across the aisle, “being shot at might be a problem over some counties, afterall, we are flying around with Tony’s name on the fuselage.” Bucky laughed, even if it was admittedly a bit strained, but after a few more minutes, Natasha and Bruce started trying to re-enact the Monty Python’s Search for the Holy Grail for him and Steve, and even though it doesn’t really make sense, it’s crazy enough that he forgets all about the plane.

When the car finally pulls into the driveway at Clint’s farmhouse, Bucky thinks he might never have been so relieved in his life. The ride from the airport had been much too long, and he’d spent most of it trying to cover his right ear with his right hand and keeping his left pressed to Steve’s shoulder to muffle the sound of Tony’s obnoxious music. He hadn’t been very successful, seeing as his metal arm vibrated like a tuning fork with every note, so he could feel it no matter what he did. Stumbling out of Tony’s car feels a bit like walking into Steve’s apartment for the first time, when he decided to stop running after so many months. It must show on his face, because Steve looks worried, but Bucky takes his hand and smiles reassuringly to let him know that it’s just Stark-induced sensory-overload.

Pepper knocks politely on the front door, forgoing Natasha’s offer to pick the lock and let themselves in, and unsurprisingly, Phil is the one who answers with a bright smile and a cheery “Merry Christmas! Come on in, it’s great to see you guys.” The group follows Phil into the living room, where he starts pointing out their rooms “Tony and Pepper, your room is up the stairs, first door on your left, Nat and Bruce, there’s bunk beds in the room at the end of the hall-”

“I call top!” Nat interrupts, running off presumably to put down her bag and claim her spot. Bruce follows her, wearing an amused grin and probably trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the infamous Black Widow calling dibs.

“Um, okay. Cap- uh, I mean Steve and...James, we made up the pull-out couch in the den for you.” Coulson tells them, stumbling over their civilian names just a bit. Bucky can see the flicker of guilt before Steve can push it down, and knows he’s thinking about that last mission again, so he drags him off to put their bags away. He catches Steve’s arm before he can leave and go back to the others. Bucky stares silently until Steve meets his eyes.

“Nobody’s judging you, Steve. Everybody out there, they’re your friends and they get it. HYDRA screwed everyone over, us especially, so they understand. Hell, most of ‘em probably would’ve done the same, if not worse. So let up on yourself, alright? It’s Christmas.” Steve looks like he wants to protest, but there’s no give in Bucky’s gaze, so after a moment, he says,

“Okay, yeah. You’re right, it’s Christmas. Let’s go celebrate.” And it’s not really the promise Bucky had been going for, but they can cross the rest of that bridge once they’re back home.

In the meantime, he and Steve head to the kitchen to help Barton finish up dinner, and judging by his somewhat frazzled expression, he could use it.

“Merry Christmas,” Steve greets him, moving to gently shift Clint away from the gravy he’s stirring manically, and take the whisk himself.

“Yeah, merry. At least, that’s what Phil keeps telling me,” he says sardonically, turning to rummage around in a drawer to find the potato masher, which Bucky promptly relieves him of.

“Aw, come on Barton,” he says. “where’s your holiday spirit?”

“Maybe it flew south for the winter,” Tony chimes in, ducking into the kitchen to sneak one of Bucky’s snickerdoodles out of the container. Clint scowls after him, and then turns his glare on Steve and Bucky stifling their laughter behind him.

“I don’t know why the hell Phil invited _him_.”

“Oh, you think he’s funny,” Bucky brushes him off. “Just not when he’s making fun of you.” He taps the potato masher on the side of the pot and reaches for the butter. Clint doesn’t respond.

By the time everyone is settled into their rooms and dinner is ready, Bucky is starving. His amped up metabolism has been hating him for skipping lunch on the plane, and the smell of the food cooking had nearly driven him out of his mind. But as soon as he reaches out to grab a roll, Steve grabs his hand and laces their fingers together. Bucky looks at him with a mixture of confusion and a hint of betrayal, because he is _really_ hungry.

“We gotta say grace first,” Steve admonishes, reaching out to Pepper on his other side for her hand. 

“Ugh,” he groans, slumping in his seat and rolling his eyes up at the ceiling in exasperation. 

“Bucky, it’s Christmas Eve. Our mothers will be rolling in their graves if we don’t say grace.”

“Come on, Stevie. Just let us eat.”

“Yeah, what he said,” Tony chimes in. Pepper shoots him a look and shuts him up quick.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Steve,” Phil offers from the end of the table. “Don’t you think so, Clint?” he asks with a pointed look at his boyfriend.

“Hm? Oh, uh...yeah, I guess.” 

With a bit more grumbling from Tony, they all join hands and Steve bows his head to say a quick prayer: “Father, we thank you for this meal, and for this company. May they join us for many years to come. Amen.” The “Amen” is only halfway out of Bucky’s mouth when he reaches for the food again, but Steve just rolls his eyes and lets it go. Swallowing a mouthful of bread, he leans over and presses a kiss to Steve’s cheek, murmuring in his ear, “That was a real nice blessin’, Stevie.” It gets him a soft smile that makes his chest tighten with a sudden rush of affection, and Bucky wishes they were alone so he could kiss Steve properly, but settles for some more roast instead.

Most days, Steve wakes up with the sun, which usually means that Bucky gets jostled awake at some ungodly hour of the morning and left to dose for another few hours until normal people are up and about. So, it’s something of a Christmas miracle that what wakes him up is Natasha knocking on the doorframe, leaning into the room to let them know that Bruce is making breakfast and wants to know how they take their eggs. Steve’s arm tightens around Bucky’s waist and pulls him closer, for once trying to cling to sleep a few minutes longer. Since Steve seems determined to pull some kind of bizarre role-reversal this morning, Bucky answers for both of them.

“Over easy if there’s toast, otherwise just scrambled.”

“You sure you don’t want an omelet?” she asks. “Bruce makes a mean egg-white western.”

“What can I say,” Bucky yawns, sitting up in bed and stretching his arms over his head until his spine pops. “We’re simple guys.” he turns to Steve, nudging his shoulder until he gets a grunt of response. “Come on, up and at ‘em, soldier.” Slowly, Steve shakes off his drowsiness and follows Bucky down to the kitchen where everyone is scattered around in their pajamas, sitting on barstools or a stolen patch of countertop while Bruce pokes at the food with a spatula.

“Merry Christmas,” Steve greets them, for all his best efforts still sounding like he wishes he was back in bed.” They all reply in kind, most of them mumbling over the rims of coffee cups, except for the recently-arrived Thor who is all too eager to celebrate the Midgardian holidays with his new friends.

They’re midway through exchanging gifts when Bucky excuses himself to go get more coffee, grateful that Thor is distracting Steve enough that he doesn’t catch the nervous tension in his gait. Safely out of sight, he braces himself on the counter with his metal arm, the other running shaky fingers through his hair, tugging a little in a fruitless effort to calm himself. After a moment of fumbling in his pocket, his hand closes around a small box, and like putting his finger on a trigger, his sniper training kicks in and his hands steady, heart rate calming, and he _really_ doesn’t want to fixate on the metaphorical resonance there as he flips the lid open and admires the simple band inside. 

He’d bought it on impulse a couple of weeks ago when he went Christmas shopping for Steve, back when he still thought it’d be just the two of them for the holidays. There are a lot of annoying things about the modern world - newscasters making mountains out of molehills, everybody seeming harried and overworked, and you need twelve different passwords just to watch TV - but he can marry Steve, which pretty much cancels out the rest of it. All that’s left now is the asking part, which, honestly he knows he shouldn't be this freaked out about. He's pretty sure he knows what the answer will be. Because for all he might say to the contrary, Steve is a pretty traditional guy, and his almost pointed silence on the matter, not even bringing it up in jest, tells Bucky that it's probably on his mind quite a bit. And Bucky wants to ask; has found the question on the tip of his tongue too many times to count.

But now isn't the right moment. Not in a room full of people - even their friends. So Bucky shuts the box and puts it back in his pocket, refills his mug and goes back into the living room to sit next to his boyfriend (who he's happy to have as just that for the time being) and watch Tony and Clint play with action figures of themselves while Coulson swings his new shield around in an outrageous impression of Steve, and lean his head on real-Steve's shoulder.

He almost feels bad for complaining about spending Christmas with these dorks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is much appreciated! If you have any thoughts you would like to share (any at all, seriously) just post a comment- I'd love to hear from you.

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism is much appreciated! If you have any thoughts you would like to share (any at all, seriously) just post a comment- I'd love to hear from you. Or, you can come join me on tumblr as fire-lord-mai!


End file.
